


the stars call to you (nevermore, nevermore)

by coruscantguard (nadiavandyne), nadiavandyne



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Clone Culture: Sad Edition, Clone Trooper-Typical Identity Issues, Gen, Violence, it's more... melancholy i think?, mentioned Doom (Star Wars), okay so it's angsty but its not like WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24975922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/pseuds/coruscantguard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/pseuds/nadiavandyne
Summary: Blackout sits with a dying brother.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	the stars call to you (nevermore, nevermore)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FluffNStuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffNStuff/gifts).



One of Doom’s men is dying.

He must’ve been caught by the blast, because that injury is the kind of ugly that only a Zabrak could recover fully from, the kind of injury that promised a slow, slow death. Blackout can see him-- just barely, as his helmet is still malfunctioning-- and he makes his way towards the trooper, pulling off his bucket on the way. It saved his head, which he’s extremely thankful for, but it’s more of a hazard than a help, now.

The trooper has managed to pull off his gauntlet, pull off his glove, and his hand is outstretched, reaching towards something or someone that is not there. When a clone that was dying like this was lucky, he would be surrounded by those in his battalion, gripping the hand of a brother.

But clones are very rarely lucky.

Commander Doom’s battalion is heading this way, but right now, it isn’t _here_. This trooper must be a scout, to be so far ahead of the other men.

To be so unlucky to stumble onto a bomb.

His luck-- or lack of it-- means that there is no one here from his battalion to grab his hand. So Blackout does as any brother would, and steps into that role, gets down on his knees, sheds his gauntlet and glove, and grabs the trooper’s hand. He’s a poor imitation of those this trooper would like to see, of those he’ll probably never see again, but he’s someone. He can be a presence so that this trooper does not die alone.

Clones do not do well alone.

“Easy there, trooper,” he says as he grabs his brother’s hand, and it’s the distinctive tattoos curling up one side of the man’s head that allows Blackout to recognize him. “Charge, was it?”

The trooper doesn’t seem to notice him at first, but he yelps when he does, the expression on his face one that would’ve been comical in any other situation. “Commander Blackout!” he says, and flinches, shakes his head. “Commander Blackout, sir. I’m sorry, I don’t... I’m sorry--”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Blackout says, his voice firm but steady, and he doesn’t wince when the hand wrapped around his own grasps a little tighter.

He doesn’t listen to the part of his brain that wants to start apologizing for his inevitable failure they both know is coming.

“You’re going to be okay, trooper,” he says instead, because it might be a lie, but it’s a kind one.

“Y-yeah,” Charge says, voice weak, and he doesn’t look down at the rebar piercing through his armor, keeps his eyes on Blackout. Blackout opts to follow Charge’s lead, and keeps his eyes firmly away from the injury, instead glancing down at their linked hands.

Their hands are slick with blood, and he knows that how quickly it dries is a silent timer, that each bit that flakes off their hands as damning as the ticks of a clock would be. It’s a countdown to doom, but Doom’s men won’t get here in time, and the countdown was over the moment the bomb went off.

“It’s-It’s not that bad, right?”

Blackout does not close his eyes, does not take a moment to steady himself from the brutal reality of death, does not take a moment to curse the Seppies and the bomb and the whole karking war. “It’s not,” he lies, and he does not regret it. “Naat will fuss, if what Commander Thorn has told me is true, but she’s on loan from the Guard, and it’s not like the _Corries_ see much action. You’ll be up and at ‘em before you know it, trust me, kid.”

Charge nods, and it’s trusting, he’s choosing to believe, to hope, despite the overwhelming evidence against his words. Blackout wishes for just one moment that he was anywhere near that good at self-delusion. “Naat will fuss,” Charge agrees, “but she’s better than Quill. He’s a menace.” Charge breaks off, coughs, finishes with, “according to Jek, anyway.”

“Corries,” Blackout says, shaking his head ruefully, as if he can convince himself that the act he’s putting on isn’t burning in his chest and that he’s not choking on it’s smoke as it crawls up his throat. The interservice rivalry with the Guards is a bit of normalcy in the inferno. Thorn will forgive him. “Can’t believe I’m batchmates with one of ‘em.”

A pause, just right on the side of being too lengthy. “Y-you are?” Charge finally asks, and he’s keeping eye contact with Blackout but blinking furiously, visibly fading more and more with every second. “Who?”

“Commander Thorn,” Blackout replies with a calm he doesn’t feel, as if he’s not going up in flames inside. “And before you ask, yes, he really is _that_ fond of his Z-6 rotary blaster cannon, yes, he did name it, and yes, it’s name is the Hammer.”

Charge’s laugh is more of a weak, wet chuckle. The rapidly drying blood on their joined hands is itchy. Blackout can see Charge’s injury out of the corner of his left eye.

He kind of wants to be sick.

There is quiet, for a moment-- the kind of quiet that is not _bad_ , but does not feel quite real; the kind of quiet where the time that passes feels wholly insignificant to both those in the skies and the stars above, and to those that are sitting in silence at a planet’s sea level.

“Can y-you tell Rieo that it wasn’t his fault?” Charge asks suddenly, “and Trells, too?”

 _You’re gonna tell them yourself, trooper_ , is what Blackout first wants to say, but he knows that look of resignation that's settling onto Charge’s face as the minutes tick by, has seen it a million times before. “I’ll pass the message along until they can hear it from _you_ ,” he says instead, he says pointedly, and thankfully, _thankfully_ , Charge nods his agreement.

But Charge’s nod is jerky, desperate, uncontrolled, and Blackout nearly misses his next words since they’re so quiet. “Don’t... don’t let them march,” he says, half orders and half pleads. Blackout is nodding his affirmation before the words are fully out of Charge’s mouth, and the look of relief on his face hurts more than the burns that scorch his skin.

A too-long moment of silence. “From--” Charge finally says, but then cuts himself off, his face screwing up in pain.

And Blackout knows, knows with crystal clear clarity what Charge means to say, knows it like he knows the stars he soars through. _Any_ brother would know what Charge is referring to, know it half-dead and barely breathing in a bacta tank, be able to recite it word for word in their sleep.

“From water, you are born,” Blackout starts, saying the words he heard Taun We say a thousand times, the affirmation of the purpose of their lives that is _their own_ , that is one of the few things they can truly claim as _their own_.”

“From water, y-you are born,” Charge repeats, his tone grateful and it’s a gratefulness Blackout knows he does not deserve, will never deserve.

“In fire you die,”

Silence, for another too-long moment. “In fire, you die,” Charge manages to stutter out, and he squeezes Blackout’s hand extra tight for a moment.

“Your bodies seed the stars,” Blackout says, and his voice is thick with something he does not care to think about, but Charge looks the most peaceful he has since Blackout found him with a piece of rebar where it should not be, all alone in a pool of his own blood, and so he does not regret.

“Y-your bodies seed the stars,” Charge says, and his hand slips from Blackout’s grasp, and then he says nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> \- "From water, you are born. In fire you die. Your bodies seed the stars." is a quote from _Star Wars: The Essential Guide to Warfare_ by Jason Fry.
> 
> \- Oh man, it is the middle of the night and I am exhausted, so the quality of this? Unknown! But the Commander Blackout tag is depressingly small, and SOMEONE (s o m e o n e) decided to enable me, so have some clone angst. 
> 
> \- I do also have a much happier Blackout fic in the works, but I need to first finish by DCU Big Bang fic, Fox week fics, Clone Wars Saved Exchange fic, AND my Tim Drake birthday fic so uhhhh... it'll be a bit before that one sees the light of day. 
> 
> \- Also, Thorn and Blackout are batchmates now. 
> 
> \- Come talk to me on Tumblr [@coruscantguard!](https://coruscantguard.tumblr.com/)


End file.
